


somewhere in italy

by toliveforever



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotionally Repressed, Episode: s03e06 Dolce, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Idiots in Love, M/M, Sex, Sexual Tension, Will Graham is a Mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-19 01:39:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29499687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toliveforever/pseuds/toliveforever
Summary: Will is not quite careless enough to try to murder Hannibal in front of the Uffizi Gallery. Besides, it lacks intimacy.(Chiyoh is somewhere living her best life, because she deserves better than to protect Hannibal Lecter.)
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 6
Kudos: 54





	somewhere in italy

**Author's Note:**

> Originally, I was going to write this in Will's POV, but I decided I wasn't a fucking coward, so I hope it's still in character enough.

The Uffizi Gallery has never been closer to a church than it is with Will Graham in front of the _Primavera_.

Hannibal always knew he'd see him in Florence, one way or the other, but the simple fact of knowing never quite compares to lived experience. It's almost surreal when it happens - not a glance from afar, but sitting next to him, solid, even when they're not touching. Wounds on his forehead that feel both like a reflection and a memory. 

Hannibal's worked so hard to make this painting a mirror as well, polished it down to the last details, the daisies blooming in Flora's hair. Back in Virginia he was reckless enough to let himself think he finished it, but he has scars to prove no such thing is possible. Its incompletion is, at the very core, a beautiful if skewed immortalization of this moment - Will's hand on his shoulder instead of the other way around, Hannibal's eyes averting first.

He'd seen Will's ascent as either a beginning or an ending, but it occurs to him that it can be both. Individuality appears fundamentally incompatible with companionship; you cannot mould an equal without them shaping you into their own. Yet there are other ways to bypass loneliness - to forgive - and Hannibal is nothing if not inventive. 

Will's inventive too, with his words at least. He smells of saltwater and there's an honesty to his tone - the kind that one would perceive in any belief they personally share - but an admission as well. Not quite forgiveness, no, something more akin to acceptance. Something easier for Hannibal to digest, devoid of all personal reluctance. Ironically, it's why he doesn't trust it. If anyone knew exactly what to feed him, it would be Will Graham.

It's harder to remember this outside the Uffizi, away from the nostalgic fog of his youth. Will walks a step ahead of him, the way he always did in Virginia; like he's taking the lead, even though it's Hannibal's apartment they’re headed to. With golden light curving along his curls like a halo, he looks almost holy. It's much easier to imagine this is normal, that Florence belongs to the both of them. That they don't need forgiveness or reinvention; that they can simply continue where they left off with an elegant sort of ignorance. But even these thoughts are dangerous - a mere settlement, rather than genuine expression. Gods do not settle.

The apartment is empty, Bedelia probably sitting under a security camera somewhere or talking to the police, sand trickling through an hourglass. But in the clock hanging on the living room wall, the minute hand struggles helplessly back and forth. For those inclined to believe in divine intervention, it might almost seem like a beckoning.

Hannibal indulges the temptation, revels in it even. Because there's a tug of intrigue in how Will looks older, more mature somehow, a luxury even among all the exquisite design. And besides, Hannibal is curious.

Will spins slowly on his feet giving the apartment his full attention. What could easily be mistaken for admiration is, in reality, Hannibal decides, a quest for opportunity, his eyes scanning the wooden floor too carefully. There's blood smeared across his left temple. 

"What do you think?" Hannibal asks, walking to the cabinet to pour _Pinot noir_ into two burgundy wine glasses _._ It swirls along the walls, a whirlpool of blood.

Will turns his head theatrically to give the place one last look around. "Oh, it suits your tastes quite perfectly, Doctor Fell," he mocks. "Elegant, though strangely impractical. I can only imagine where you keep the meat." His tone remains as fiercely cynical as ever, but his eyes crinkle above a suppressed smile as if humoring an old friend. He catches himself and turns to the window to look at the city below him.

The corner of Hannibal's mouth lifts in an encouraged echo. "In some dishes meat is better prepared immediately after slaughter."

Will lets out a snort, still turned away. "Is that how you'd have me?"

He imagines Will on his back, the tip of a knife grazing the skin of his chest, right above his heart. Not tied down, but willing, leaning into it even, as blood trickles toward his sternum. Imagines that he'd want it, to be hurt just as much as he wants to hurt Hannibal; for them to feel the same, be the same.

"No," he answers. _I'll savour you._ He moves forward, watching Will's shoulders tense with every footstep. Reaching out, he offers the wine. Will accepts it, their fingers just barely brushing, and looks at Hannibal, expectant for more. "Is that how you'd have _me_?" Hannibal asks instead.

Will's reaction is delayed, an ugly contorted thing, as if the words unfold on his tongue, leaving him with a bitter aftertaste. Without answering he slips around Hannibal, careful not to touch him. Hannibal doesn't follow; he leans against the window and watches him make his way to the writing desk. Will flips through the drawings halfheartedly, dragging them out of the pile one by one. Making a mess as if to provoke.

"All of these sort of look like me," he says after a while, looking up at Hannibal through half-lidded accusing eyes and sipping from the glass. It’s an exaggeration. At most, half of them do.

"It's an act of great arrogance to see your face reflected in works of the old masters."

"An act of greater arrogance even, to call yourself one. And besides, you're not that old " Will teases, the lines of his face softening. The previous tension has dissipated and Hannibal wonders if it's inversely proportional to the amount of space between them.

Will leans over the desk once more to trace his finger along the delicate pencil lines, then presses hard until they smudge. With great fondness, Hannibal considers bashing his skull against the wall. Will smiles. "Is this how you see me?"

"I see you as you are." Hannibal approaches him, his steps slow, almost threatening. He leaves his glass on the table, untouched.

"And how am I?" Will challenges. The tension is back in his shoulders, in his face, but there is something sadder about it - the posture of a grieving man.

Hannibal doesn’t answer until he’s just beside Will who turns to meet his gaze. "You are many things. What you are at this moment is holding you back the most – afraid."

Will laughs, an ugly broken sound. "Of you?"

"Of yourself," Hannibal replies. Neither of them says it but they're thinking the same thing and that in itself is enough. They're so close, it'd be almost impossible to move without touching. A tear spills from the corner of Will’s eye, diluted by blood on its way down.

“I- I called you. You could’ve –” His voice breaks, and it’s so profoundly desperate, Hannibal wishes nothing more but to hold him. “Why didn’t you?”

“I couldn’t leave for the same reason you couldn’t come with me,” Hannibal says, keeping his voice even. A sliver of viciousness slips through. “The same reason you came here today.”

He wants to sink his fingers into the wounds covering Will’s face, to make sure they're real, to deepen them. _Everything that's done to you, I want to be the one to have done it._

He hears Will’s hand move more than he sees it. A whooshing sound. A glint of a blade in the corner of his eye. The knife stops just short of his neck, just for a second, but it’s enough for Hannibal to react. His fingers wrap around Will’s wrist, pulling it away. Both of them freeze, their eyes meeting, searching.

"You hesitated."

Will doesn’t say anything, just stares blankly. _He’s expecting to die here_ , Hannibal realizes. He pulls their hands down, the tip of the knife pointing to the floor. "Are you still afraid of wanting to kill me, Will?"

Will exhales, his bitterness not in the least spoiled by fear. "You’ve got it wrong, Doctor Lecter. I'm afraid of the part of me that doesn't want to."

"And why _do_ you want to kill me? Because of Abigail?" It's a low blow but he wants Will to fight. Wants to not feel like the only one losing control.

What he gets is a spiteful diversion. "I don’t need to remind you, you aren't my psychiatrist anymore, Doctor. And we could hardly file this under friendly conversation." Will's wrist twitches under his fingers in emphasis. He tightens his grip.

"Tell me anyway. Consider it a favor to an old friend."

The smile on Will’s face is deranged. It shouldn’t make Hannibal excited. "Abigail was as much my fault as yours."

"And the others?"

Will shakes his head, like there’s something Hannibal doesn’t get. "You asked me if I imagined killing you back home. I've done it so many times now, I deluded myself into thinking I'd find you dead here."

"And how did it make you feel?" Hannibal asks, his tone verging on professional.

Will rolls his eyes. "Good," he says. Rethinks. "Righteous. Like I was doing the right thing. And yet-"

"And yet?"

"I couldn't imagine an after. After you, it's- it's after me, too. I used to think of you as a disease, a spread of bacteria, corrupting me from the outside. But you've grown into me or-" he pauses, "or I've grown into you."

"You've spent enough time in my head the very thought of killing me felt like suicide," Hannibal concludes. Will turns his head away and he knows he's uncovered something pyrophoric, hidden under the surface for a reason. "And you'd make me the executioner," he adds. His free hand slips into the pocket of his jacket.

Will's head snaps back like he's been given an opportunity, a chance at redemption. His blue eyes find Hannibal's, holding his gaze intently, like a predator deliberating its next move. Hannibal is met with a peculiar reflection - the need for understanding.

"If we both take hold of the axe it's a victimless crime."

Hannibal tightens his grip, presses his thumb into the delicate bone. The knife clatters on the floor. Will pulls his hand away as if burnt.

"Has there been others?"

It’s obvious stalling, but Hannibal’s self-control has been vastly overstated. When it comes to Will, especially.

"Anyone else I've killed," he asks, "or loved?"

"Killing, eating, fucking; I'm starting to wonder if they're not all the same thing."

"Oh, I can assure you, they are not. At best, they are merely linked together by the desire of life and death."

"So, has there been anyone else?" Will asks again. Hannibal raises an eyebrow, leans his head to the side. Will rolls his eyes. "I know you've killed people since. It's not what I'm asking."

"There was someone who came close, yes.” He thinks of Will’s crude rewording. Impossible to talk about love to a man who shudders at the thought. Sex seems like the nearest thing. "His name was Antony. You've met him."

Something not unlike anger settles on Will’s face before the realization strikes. It pleases Hannibal immensely.

"The Norman Chapel,” Will whispers. “Your broken heart." Hannibal wants to ask him what made him think it was broken but he thinks better of it.

"Does it bother you? That I killed him." _For you._

"I prefer the blood on my hands to be metaphorical."

"Except when it's mine."

A smear of red lingers in the crack between Will's lips like a lover's kiss. Hannibal leans in to lick it off, to claim it as his, but Will turns his head to the side with a pained breath. It's expected, almost, and Hannibal doesn't resent it, just brushes his lips against Will's temple, his fingers gently combing through his hair. He tastes the copper there, imagines Will covered in blood, not his, no, someone else's. A future that could've been. Then Will is kissing his neck, and there's not much need to imagine anything at all.

Will bites lightly at the junction of his neck and his shoulder. "I missed this," he mumbles into the skin there, a muffled admission.

"We've never done this before," Hannibal challenges, though he knows it's not what Will meant. _Because_ he knows it's not what he meant. He always has to push him just a little further and it's an act of cruelty, but the pursuit of honesty often is. 

"I missed you."

Will’s hands are everywhere, grabbing at fabric, unsure whose clothes he’s supposed to be removing. He's pulling at Hannibal’s jacket and then his shirt and it’s a shared effort when they finally end up mostly unclothed.

Will, behind him, the space between their bodies nonexistent.

"Did you think of me?" Will pleads, his breath hot against Hannibal's skin.

Hannibal doesn't know if he's referring to Antony or the entirety of the time they spent apart. "Yes," he gasps out and then Will's fingers are pushing into his mouth, as if it's that hard to hear.

Hannibal’s been with men and he’s been with women, but nothing has ever felt like this. Not losing control but entrusting it. Saying, _it is as much yours now as it is mine; I know you will not use it against me._ He’s never been one to shy away from pleasure, but this one comes so close to divinity it makes him tremble. Will might not be good at forgiveness, but his hand is merciful.

He comes with his whole body pressed into Hannibal’s, bites hard into his shoulder and Hannibal can't help but think it's the most honest thing he's done all evening. He feels it hot on his back, runs his fingers over the wound, skin slippery with his own blood and lets go of the world.

He ends up on the floor somehow, his back against the desk. Will’s already half-dressed, fingers hastily buttoning his shirt. Shaking. Hannibal thinks he could watch him forever, if only he could keep him here. He reaches into the pocket of his jacket, discarded by his side.

“Will,” he calls out. Will doesn’t turn to face him but he stills completely, waiting for Hannibal to reach him.

He cradles Will's face in his hand, thumb slowly outlining the skin-softened bone of his jaw. Will's bottom lip trembles, a single streak of blood painting it red. Hannibal could kiss him, trace it with his tongue and Will would let him, would want it now. He'd melt into it even, the way he's leaning into his hand, a silent order. So caught up in it, he doesn't notice the needle piercing into his median vein.

His arms loop around Hannibal’s neck instinctively, his chin propped on Hannibal’s shoulder. "Hannibal," he whispers like it's the only thing he can think to hold on to. Hannibal just wraps his arms around his body, holding him there.

"Who can't you forgive, Will?" he asks but by then Will's already gone.

**Author's Note:**

> Anyways, hope you enjoyed. If there's anything you think I should tag, please feel free to let me know.


End file.
